


Hidden Under His Eyes

by capricornia



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, i may continue this and maybe not, we'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 10:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capricornia/pseuds/capricornia
Summary: After 3.3, Richard and Aumerle spend one last night together. AU where Aumerle has wings and is bound to serve the crown of England. Too bad the identity of the crown of England's wearer is up for debate.





	Hidden Under His Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I think this winged!Aumerle idea would be really interesting to follow through the whole play, but for now, have this angst thing. Feel free to advise me on the Early Modern English; this is very much a work in progress.
> 
> Title from "Under the Gun" by the Killers:  
> She's got her halo and wings / hidden under his eyes / but she's an angel for sure / she just can't stop telling lies

King Richard strokes his hands against Aumerle's wings. His fingers are tender, his nails bitten down and chipped. His eyes, usually so full of brilliance and mirth, are dull, staring through Aumerle's eyes and into his soul, where Aumerle's plain affection is laid bare and open for anyone to find. The king looks like he is decomposing, and Aumerle knows it is his duty to quell whatever is peeling away at the smooth lavender-scented skin.

What is his duty and what he wants are two different things, of course--he wants King Richard to stroke his wings more, to run his roughened nails through his hair, to--well, a person cannot get all he wants. But maybe a bit of both...? Perhaps, if Aumerle is very, very careful, he can stop whatever wound of the heart is peeling away King Richard's skin so. Perhaps he can let King Richard fawn himself out of misery and into confidence.

The king's fingers on Aumerle's wings grow more insistent. Aumerle does not move; he has not moved since the king ordered him to stay still and move no closer, since the king ordered the remainder of his retinue away from this the king's bedchamber. It is to be their last night until their kingly party becomes Bolingbroke’s kingly party and departs for London.

"If we should give our crown," King Richard starts. Aumerle's wing twitches, his first movement in several minutes. "Ned," the king says, switching subjects, and if Aumerle were not bound to him and did not love him, he might have noted to one of his peers later the way the king's voice broke over the lone syllable. "Ned," Richard says again, and Aumerle allows himself to soften as Richard draws him in closer.

"Thy wings are folding in a bad shape," Richard mumbles against Aumerle's shoulder.

"I care not, my lord." He can feel each feather bent out of place, each sinew straining against Richard's grip, but he also feels the whisper of Richard's hair down his shoulder and against the delicate boning of his wing, and he can feel the graze of Richard's stubble over his jaw. It's in moments like these that Aumerle remembers Richard is human.

"Thou art tied to my crown, Ned," Richard says plainly.

Aumerle tries for humor. "Your crown will remain on your head until your skin is flayed," he says. Perhaps he has over-shot his goal.

Richard shakes his head. "Lighten not the situation," he chides. "We are attempting to mollify ourself."

"My lord," Aumerle says carefully, "though I employed the use of humor, I only wished to shed light on a hole in the devising of my servitude." As much as Aumerle hates the servitude, he is, after kall, also but a man, and men may find that their affections often suade their better judgment.

"Dost thou think thy servitude tied to mine head, rather than my crown?” Richard asks softly. “If tied to mine head, I would find some solace in this abominable act of resignation; but if tied to my crown--" And there are his fingers again, smoothing down the ruffled feathers against Aumerle's back, sending quivers of chills around the bones of his wings and down his spine. “If I saw thee in Bolingbroke’s livery, I do not think I could bear it.”

Aumerle thinks of Bolingbroke, of the last conversation they had together, before King Richard had departed to Ireland, before all of this.

No,” Richard says, quieter still. “It could not be borne. What thinkst thou? Be thou as honest as thou hast ever been, Ned."

But before Richard was king, Aumerle cared for his grandfather, and sat by his knee and waited for instruction, and learned his pen dutifully according to Edward’s wishes. "In faith, lord, I do not think it so. Yet I pray it is," he adds hastily.

"Oh, Ned," Richard says, and this time it is Aumerle who puts his arms around his king.

"I do not wish Bolingbroke to have you," Richard says.

"My lord, e'en if he taketh my soul, mine heart remains to no one but--"

But King Richard puts his hand against Aumerle's lips. "Shh," he says. "Say it not. I cannot bear it."

Aumerle's tongue comes forward to lick at the cracks between Richard's fingers. Richard jerks his hand away in surprise. Aumerle licks his lips. He hasn't done that since they were boys. Richard's hands taste of old sweat and mutton. It is not the most pleasant taste to be found on the earth.

"Thou wilt be mine undoing," Richard says, and kisses Aumerle. It's simple, a press of lips upon lips, but Aumerle is starved for it, has been starved for it for hours, since Richard pledged himself to a life with Aumerle and without the crown, were he to have the choice, since Aumerle cried in front of his king.

He does not ask whether Richard means the undoing of his kingship or of his personhood. He has always suspected that for Richard the two are one and the same.

"My lord," he says when Richard pulls away. "Does Bolingbroke know of my... condition?"

"He is allied with York," Richard says bitterly. "York must know everything there is to know about it."

"My father does not know of some things," Aumerle points out, teasing. Richard only scowls in response.

"Now is not the time for treatises on the complex workings of sex between a king and his winged servant."

"When will be the time, my lord? If tomorrow your crown is on Bolingbroke's head and I am belonged to him, if he shall forbid me to see you I must obey."

"I did say treatises," Richard says. "I did not say it is not time for practical application."

"My lord--"

"Yet I will say it now. Aumerle, oh, Ned--cousin, tell me thou art mine one last time?"

Aumerle shakes his head, but it is not a gesture of denial. They both know this; they both know Aumerle is Richard's from crown to toe, from wingtip to wingtip.

"As much yours as the day I pledged fealty to you on your coronation day as a child of four years," says Aumerle, and his face is serious in the candlelight. Richard reaches out to trace a long finger around the curve the soft light follows down Aumerle's cheek.

"I would old York had not promised thee to my father’s father upon thy birth," he whispers. It's the most confession of his regret he has ever said, and Aumerle is grateful for it, though he knows it will not change anything.

 _I would our grandfather had not  demanded my servitude upon learning of the miracle of my birth_ , Aumerle thinks. He says nothing, just lets King Richard gaze and gaze upon his face. He clasps his fingers against Richard's back as his king's hands wander around and around, memorizing him one last time in the candlelight.

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha I slipped in a reference there to oxymoronic's Every Subject's Soul aka my favorite fic ever.


End file.
